Nine Moles
by MynaPyrrhuloxia
Summary: Norway can't sleep, so he stays awake and thinks about himself and the one who sleeps beside him. Imperfections make people beautiful, the myths of old are the myths of today, and love doesn't always have to be explained. DenNor, oneshot.


Halvard Sørensen is my name for Norway. Henrik Pedersen is my name for Denmark. Country names don't flow as well in this fic, so I didn't change them. I wrote this fic because of a haiku I quickly came up with in English class as an assignment, and it prompted me to write (I placed it at the bottom of the fic). I also know that this fic has a weird tense/switching tenses, but I wrote it as a writing experiment partially, too. Try something different.

I spell Turkey's name with a k since there is no q in Arabic, a friend told me. It's also my headcanon that Norway sleeps around. He's kind of a whore. This has to do with sex statistics I saw about Norway once and was added to my headcanon due to a psychological explanation my friend came up with regarding Norway and his self-image. I have overly complex and strange headcanon, don't ask (unless you want to).

Nine Moles

There are some nights where Halvard Sørensen cannot sleep.

This fact is rather strange, seeing as Mr. Sørensen can usually fall asleep without a problem. On subways, on swings, on hard wooden floors—anywhere, he can fall asleep soundly. Even standing up. Halvard is a sleep glutton, consuming it lustfully, without care where or with whom it is. But yes, there are indeed some nights when, without explanation, he simply cannot fall asleep.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Even stranger still, he's in the same bed as a certain Henrik Pedersen. Usually, having his longest and closest friend lying beside him puts him to sleep faster, in comfort, but that's not the case. Halvard managed to fall asleep for a few hours, but suddenly he found himself staring at the wall, awake. No amount of readjusting his position helped him, so he simply gave up as he watched the clock change from three to four. Now he is on his back, one arm resting on his forehead, losing himself in the cracks and knots of the wooden beams overhead, arching with their dark stain. Once, long ago, his eyes saw stars in the heavens. But now that roofs hung over the heads of man, the stars vanished from sight. He, imagining and conjuring a night sky in his head, uses a free hand to grasp one of the shining twinkles, but he fails to drag them down to earth. He lets his arm fall down to his side as Henrik rolls over onto his back.

Shifting his gaze to his partner, he sighs, jealous that Henrik can sleep so easily. Occasionally, the man will wake up, crying, shaking from horrors of the past back to haunt him, but that is the only qualm Henrik ever has. But it is normal to have nightmares. Halvard has them too.

He spots a faint dot on Henrik's back, illuminated by the crisp light raining from the moon. It's summer, and the good weather brings open windows and open blinds, letting the sounds of crickets and the smell of grass to waft in. Occasionally, on some nights, wolves will howl. As uncommon as they are, those who have survived the rapid industrialization come out, their song a solemn reminder that nobody is alone.

Halvard shifts, moving his face closer to the small circle, and taps the pad of his fingertip against it. He does this several times before traveling downwards, revealing more of Henrik's back as he pushes away the covers. He taps the mole again. This is it's head, Albireo.

Long ago, when they were children, swimming in the water, he had noticed it, the tiny blob. He had traced it then too, the outline that appeared as he moved from dot to dot, mentally creating patterns. A swan, a swan graced Henrik's back, the head caught between his two shoulder blades. The swan, that flew above the world during the night. A constellation. Cygnus.

He pokes the star Albireo again. In reality, the star is composed of two different stars that appear to be intertwined together, but you can't notice that unless you have a strong enough telescope. But Henrik's back isn't an exact map of space. It just displays a common symbol.

The swan is a fitting symbol for the Dane. No matter how hotblooded he can be, Henrik is gentle. The swan is as majestic as the ex-King of the North, a regal bird, untouched by dirty hands. Something captured the monarchy's attention when they saw the swan sitting atop the water, and thus one day they had decided to borrow the bird's form as their symbol. To this day, Denmark adopts the bird as it's own.

But even further than that, there are stories.

There are many men named Cygnus in the Greek myths, Herakles had told them when they brought their longboats into the Mediterranean waters. The most famous was of two men; Phaeton and Cygnus. As Phaeton fell to earth after he found he was unable to control the sun's chariot, he crashed into a deep lake. In horror, Cygnus, his deepest friend, dove into the murky depths searching for his friend, not accepting the possibility that Phaeton had burned to ash or dissolved into the water, drowning. Cygnus continued, surfacing and resurfacing, crying out Phaeton's name in desperation, where the gods, moved by the man's devotion, decided to transform the remaining soul into a beautiful swan and place him into the heavens.

Apparently, that's where the word for swan came from.

But Halvard didn't believe any of that. It was a nice story, a way to explain how a swan ventured into the stars in the first place.

They were one another's Phaeton and Cygnus.

Halvard traces down Henrik's spine all the way to the swan's tail, which rests on his hip. Sadik's country calls this star Deneb, one of the brightest stars of the warmest nights. When Henrik asked him once what he thought the constellation on his back looked like, Sadik agreed with them that it was indeed a swan—they saw a bird in his land too. But Yao had given him an alternative proposal.

In Chinese myth, Deneb marks a place of a bridge across the river of the Milky Way. The Magpie Bridge, it is called, only exists once a year, allowing Niu Lang and Zhi Nu to meet one another. Once upon a time, Niu Lang fell in love with a spirit, Zhi Nu, and he married her in secret, as mortals are not allowed to marry children of the sky. They were happy, and led out peaceful lives until the Goddess of the Heavens discovered Zhi Nu on earth living as a peasant. Furious, the Goddess chased her into the world above, laving Niu Lang alone. In despair, Niu Lang tried to follow his wife into the heavens, but as the two drew close, the Goddess became angry and removed a jade hairpin, scratching the sky with it, forming a cosmic rift between the two lovers—The Milky Way. Separated by an impassable river, the two sit alone on the bank, staring at one another. But the magpies of earth—clever inky birds—pitied them, and once a year on the seventh day of the seventh moon, all of them fly up into the night, creating a living bridge to unite the two for a single night.

Again, just another story.

He moves his finger up again, he pauses, and flanks to the left, hitting more imperfect dots. Five. Six. Seven. Seven dots now, forming a wing. Imperfection, Norway repeats to himself, these moles were imperfections on Henrik's skin. Halvard has one on his foot, on his shoulder, at the base of his neck. Tiny little imperfections that remind him that he is not an immortal. He makes mistakes too—and has scars to prove it. He still bleeds, he still breathes, he can still die. Halvard embraces these little circles, they make him feel human. He doesn't see them as marks of sin—for he has no comprehension of this word—but marks of beauty. Everyone is flawed, but that's what makes people perfect.

He continues—and waves his hand to the far right. The motion reminds him of a gesture priests and monks frantically performed on themselves before Halvard chopped them to bits with his battleaxes and swords long ago. It was the same gesture he did when the same religion later spread across his land. In the symbol of the cross, God's protection granted you strength.

Cygnus is also known as the Northern Cross.

Halvard repeats the crossing motion over and over again, and loses himself in the nine moles that adorn Henrik's backside. He isn't sure of what he's doing, but he finds the repetition comforting. He supposes he is giving the sleeping other his blessing—not like Henrik needs any blessing—but it is something he does all the same. And then he crosses himself—a motion he hasn't performed in decades—before he lays his head back down on the pillow and snuggles into Henrik's warmth.

He won't go back to sleep, he knows that, but he lays there and thinks. He has an hour or so, he reckons, until Henrik will wake up with the summer sun. Tomorrow is Henrik's birthday. He hasn't got him a present—Halvard doesn't need to give him a present. They've known one another long enough that they're beyond exchanging gifts. Each other is enough. No matter how much time Henrik spends with other people and no matter now many people Halvard sleeps with, they still belong to each other. Halvard is Henrik's and Henrik is Halvard's. They don't wear rings or have a contract stating this union. They have no need. They are beyond such forms of expression.

But he still gets jealous.

He places a palm on the swan. On the other side of Henrik's back is his heart, beating away even as his body is still. His head is close enough that he can hear it. That, and the faintness of Henrik's breath as it warms Halvard's scalp.

Henrik's face is peaceful while he sleeps. Halvard wonders if he looks the same, or if his face is still stony and hard.

He wishes that he were beautiful.

Halvard doesn't like himself. He doesn't see himself as a good person. He's weak, even though he appears strong. He scared, even though he appears composed. Halvard hates the fact that he's disliked and unaccepted as a friend. He feels lonely. But he doesn't fear being alone. What Halvard fears is being forgotten. He fears being unloved.

He is loved. He squeezes Henrik tighter.

He hates being a whore sometimes. He acts like he enjoys it, that he's proud. But it secretly hurts. Indeed, it's pleasurable, but after the moment of ecstasy fades he's left with a sour feeling in his mouth. There isn't any emotion behind it, it's purely physical.

Sex doesn't mean anything to him anymore unless there is emotion behind it, mutually. He gets that from one person only.

And that is his solstice. It's what keeps him grounded and sane. Knowing that someone is behind him, ready to catch him if he falls, is enough to keep him grounded. He thinks—no, Halvard _knows_—that Henrik feels the same way.

Frankly, neither of them truly understand their relationship. It just works. That's good enough.

So Halvard feels relieved. He'll lie there until the sun begins to creep through the windows, a chorus of birds greeting the morning light. And when Henrik finally stirs, eyelids still hung with sleep as they kiss, greeted in silence aside from a mumbled "Mornin', you," Halvard can finally confess out in the open air that he's in love.

And they know, as long as they have one another, they'll both be fine.

Cygnus

Nine moles on my back

Create a map of the swan;

Lovers kiss in June


End file.
